


Foxglove

by tridecaphilia



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anchors, Angst, Consensual bondage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Sexual Bondage, Post-Episode: s03e19 Letharia Vulpina, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-24
Updated: 2014-04-13
Packaged: 2018-01-13 16:02:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1232587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tridecaphilia/pseuds/tridecaphilia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The nogitsune died, but it left something behind. Something twisting him from the inside. He hid it from his friends—his pack; he hid it from his father; he even managed to hide it from Allison, who should have known better. Somehow, the only one he didn't manage to hide it from is the one person who shouldn't have been able to notice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm pretty sure tonight's episode will give twists that will Joss this fic in about nine different ways. To that end, I'm putting this first chapter up now.

The hospital hadn’t originally been part of the plan. But despite all Deaton’s assurances and predictions, when Stiles had stopped breathing for a full ten seconds Scott had called 911. An ambulance had been there a few minutes later, by which point Stiles had begun breathing again; but they agreed with Scott’s assessment and took the unconscious Stiles to the hospital.

That was three hours ago. Stiles had gone into respiratory arrest two more times, neither of which had lasted more than half a minute. His father had arrived, and was waiting in the other room. He didn’t say it, but Scott understood that he couldn’t watch this helplessly any more. Deaton was still infuriatingly calm about the whole thing.

“The fox is trying to hold on to its control over Stiles,” he said. “As it’s dying, that means Stiles’ body will feel some of its own pain. But the weaker it gets, the more control Stiles will have, and the less this will happen, until the fox dies and leaves Stiles alone.”

Scott nodded. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe Deaton… well, maybe he thought the man was being a little overly optimistic, but he didn’t think he was _lying_ , which was something.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “He’ll be fine.”

He had to be.

~

_Stupid humans. Do they think I will die so easily?_

“Considering exactly what they hit you with, I’d say yeah, they do. And I do, too.”

The roles were reversed now. The nogitsune, its form shifting between Stiles’ face, the one with fangs, and a mass of shadow, lay half-curled on the ground of this mindscape. Stiles, strong and human and more clear-headed than he’d been in weeks, stood over him.

The fox laughed. Its voice now was the same hissing, growling sound it had used when it had first shown up in Stiles’ head, not the imitation of Stiles’ voice it had used for the past few days. _I do not die that easily. They have only doomed you, Stiles._

Stiles frowned. “You’re not saying ‘we’ anymore.” Given how much he’d wanted the thing to stop using it before, he wasn’t sure why that bothered him, but it was unnerving.

_No. Soon, Stiles… soon it will only be you. And then you will wish you had listened to me now._

The thing dissolved into shadow, roaring up toward Stiles like a tidal wave. Stiles threw up a hand as though to protect his face, but the shadow passed straight through him. He could feel his chest tightening—not the one his mental image had, but the real one, his body’s chest. Was he breathing? He was pretty sure he’d stopped once or twice. Had it stopped again?

~

“Stiles!” Scott yelled. He started forward into the room but Deaton held him back. Nurses were coming; he could hear their steps, rubber-soled nurses’ shoes squeaking as they rushed to the room. His mother had just rounded the corner of the doorway when the alerts stopped. Stiles had started breathing again.

~

“You’re not going to kill me,” Stiles said. “You’re going to die, and I’m going to live.”

The fox chuckled. It was back to its position in front of him, but seemed to be growing a little stronger—it was on its knees, at least, instead of its side.

_Yes, Stiles. You will live. But have you thought **what** you will live?_

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

 _You will live,_ the fox said again. Its eyes—Stiles’ eyes in its shadowy face—gleamed. For a second they glowed like the fireflies the fox so hated. _You will live._

It started to chuckle again, then to laugh. _And so, even in death, I will win._

~

The machines were going haywire. It hadn’t been five minutes since Stiles had last gone into respiratory arrest, and now the nurses were throwing around terms like tachycardia, and although Scott could never remember the difference between tachycardia and V-fib he knew it was bad for Stiles.

Deaton’s hold on his arm was still firm, and it was joined now by the sheriff’s. “There’s nothing we can do,” the sheriff said when Scott looked ready to dive in anyway. His voice was hollow. “Either he lives or he doesn’t. The only ones with a chance to change the outcome now are the doctors.”

They were right. Deaton’s poison and the doctors’ medicine had to save Stiles now; it was too late for Scott to do anything. That didn’t make it any easier, though, to watch as his best friend fought for his life against something none of them could even see.

~

The nogitsune fell back to the floor of the mindscape, still laughing. And as Stiles watched, it started to dissolve—right hand collapsing into muck on the floor, then left. Shadowy cracks that almost looked like the pain Scott took from people spread along its face and down its neck. Its stomach deflated until Stiles could count every vertebrae in what still looked like his own spine. Tails erupted from its hips, lashed around too fast for Stiles to get a clear look at any of them. One of them hit his face, and he flinched, but it didn’t draw blood or bruise or sting or whatever it might have done in this mindscape.

 _You will live, Stiles._ It was cackling now, an eerie sound that was far too much like real foxes and made Stiles clap his hands over his ears as though he could drown out a noise that wasn’t even real. _You will live. Enjoy your life, Stiles! Enjoy what you have gotten for the price you have paid._

It kept laughing, and the cracks kept spreading. No—not cracks. That _was_ pain, or what looked like it. Black veins, not cracks.

The muck on the floor that had once been the thing’s hands sunk into the ground and vanished; shortly thereafter its feet did the same. Then its whole body collapsed, dissolving piece by piece into the ground.

It felt like a shot of caffeine, like dumping a handful of Adderal and a full Mountain Dew into Stiles’ hyperactive brain. It settled his thoughts—for the first time since the Nemeton, maybe before, Stiles felt calm, clear, _focused._ That was probably the wrong reaction. That _had_ to be the wrong reaction. The fox was doing something, even now, even as it _died._

But it felt… _good._

The fox’s laughter was the last thing to go, echoing even after its whole head had sunk into the ground with the rest of it.

Stiles opened his eyes.

~

Stiles was awake. Scott could really only tell because the nurses stepped back. One doctor—the same one who’d handled Stiles’ MRI—and Mrs. McCall stayed behind to make sure he was okay. From the doorway, Scott could hear his mom asking the standard series of questions—name, age… Stiles didn’t know what day it was, but no one had really expected him to.

Beside him, the sheriff let out a breath of relief. “He’s alive,” he said. He sounded as though he didn’t believe it himself. “He’s alive.”

“Yes, Sheriff,” Deaton reassured him. “Stiles will be fine now.”

Mrs. McCall came over. She addressed the sheriff, but at least she didn’t tell the others to leave. “He’s disoriented, not sure what’s been happening recently, which honestly we expected. We’ll run an MRI tomorrow.”

That hit like a punch to the gut. Scott had managed to forget, in the chaos of everything since then, that Stiles was sick. That everything they’d done to get rid of the nogitsune… it might not matter. Stiles might still die, might still lose everything that made him _Stiles_ until he faded into nothing.

If the sheriff had the same thoughts, he didn’t show it. “Thanks,” was all he said. “Can I talk to him?”

Mrs. McCall nodded. “You, however,” she told Scott, “need to sleep. Shoo. Home, bed. Now. You can’t see Stiles now anyway.”

He didn’t want to, but she was right. Stiles was awake, and non-family wouldn’t be allowed in for another day at least. So, reluctantly, he left.

~

“Dad?”

Sheriff Stilinski smiled down at his son. “Hey,” he said. “It’s me.”

“Hi.” Stiles smiled, or tried to. It twisted and vanished almost as soon as it appeared. “Dad, I’m sorry.”

“Hey.” Sheriff Stilinski brushed a hand over his hair. “You have nothing to be sorry for. Just get some rest. We’ll figure all this out.”

Stiles closed his eyes, trying not to cry. He didn’t even know what _this_ was anymore that they had to figure out. He didn’t want to figure out the nogitsune’s words—didn’t want to _think_ about them—didn’t even want them to have happened at all—but they kept spinning through his head.

_And so, even in death, I will win._


	2. Chapter 2

They didn’t believe what was happening. Stiles could tell; doctors who believed their machines didn’t run two additional tests to confirm it. And that’s what they were up to now—another MRI, with contrast, on a different machine, followed by a CT scan. The only way the doctors could broadcast their disbelief any more clearly was if they’d asked to cut Stiles’ head open to check for themselves.

Now, after the CT scan, he and his dad were in the waiting room once again. Stiles’ eyes were on his hands, folded and fidgeting in his lap. It was good news—he believed it was. He did. It had to be. He was too clear-headed, had slept too well after the nogitsune died. He hadn’t had nightmares. He’d barely even doubted when he woke up. It had to be good news. Besides, the doctors would have told them if it had been bad news. They wouldn’t have liked it, but they would have believed it. The fact that they so clearly _didn’t_ believe it meant it had to be good news, impossibly good news. It _had_ to.

He would have believed it more if the doctor hadn’t asked to talk to his dad first. Stiles couldn’t hear what they were saying outside the room, but his nerves had stretched so tight they couldn’t go any further and were now winding themselves around each other for added effect.

Stiles pressed his hands together. It would be good news. He had to believe it.

Finally they came back, and Stiles finally relaxed. His dad looked a little stunned, but his forehead was slack, not furrowed with worry. He wasn’t shaking, and his eyes were clear of tears. He couldn’t have broadcast relief any clearer if he’d held up a blinking sign over his head.

“Good news?” Stiles asked, and hated that his voice cracked.

“Yes indeed.” Doctor Kleug smiled. “We have very good news. You are clear of all signs of dementia.”

“How is that even possible?”

He wanted to be optimistic. He wanted to believe that the dementia had been some kind of trick, or even that the nogitsune had cured him as it died. He’d even known that their disbelief was good news. But his voice still cracked on the way out of his throat. He felt tense. He wasn’t quite scared, wasn’t quite sad or happy or angry or anything. It was like everything was waiting for some kind of cue what would happen.

“We think it was a technical malfunction on the first test,” Kleug said. “All we can say is that we’re very glad it turned out to be that way.”

Stiles nodded. His dad was still watching him. He forced a smile onto his face, for his dad’s sake, and got up from the uncomfortable waiting room chair. Sheriff Stilinski hugged him tight; Stiles returned it.

_And so, even in death, I win._

The fox had died, and now Stiles was somehow cured of a disease that had no cure. It should have felt like a victory, but it didn’t. It felt like crawling along a tightrope waiting for it to snap.

He cleared his throat. “So I can go home?” he asked.

“Well, we want to keep you under observation for another day or so,” Dr. Kleug said, “but after that, yes, you can go home.”

He smiled. It looked odd on his stern, lined face. “You’re a very lucky young man,” he said. “We’re all very glad.”

Stiles looked at his dad once the doctor left. “Why are _they_ glad?” he asked.

Sheriff Stilinski chuckled. “Melissa told me once that no one likes telling parents that their kid is going to die. It’s even worse than telling the patient, because kids shouldn’t die.”

Stiles nodded. He wrapped his hand loosely around his dad’s. “I’m glad too,” he said softly. He even sounded convincing.

The tightrope was wobbly under his feet. He didn’t want to look down, didn’t want to know what would happen when it snapped. There was nothing visibly wrong with his head now, obviously, but he was still sure that there was _something._ The nogitsune had _done_ something, he knew it had. What was it? It would almost be better to find out now, no matter what it was, than to have to wait and figure it out at the worst possible moment. He wasn’t sure which would be better or worse, actually. His emotions were still… pending.

“So, once they clear you to leave,” his dad said to break the awkward silence, “I’m thinking we should go out somewhere. Get our minds off of everything that’s happened lately. What do you think?”

Stiles grinned. “Depends where you have in mind,” he said. “You’re still not eating junk food. I didn’t get miraculously cured just so I could lose you.” His voice cracked a bit on the last. Okay, maybe too soon to make jokes about that.

His dad’s smile had a touch of reluctance to it, probably from the joke too, but he gave it anyway. “Fair enough. How about that place, what’s it called, The Winds? You like them, right?”

“Yeah, they’ll work.” They’d more than work. The Winds was the best place to eat in Beacon Hills. Too expensive for anything but the best of occasions, but totally worth it.

They were quiet for a few seconds. And maybe that was what Stiles needed to slacken his nerves, because a bit of the tension and stillness faded and it was suddenly hard not to cry. He hugged his dad tight, and when his dad hugged him back he stopped trying to hold the tears in.

His emotions were suddenly a maelstrom. He was still scared and waiting for the other shoe to drop, but on the other hand, he wasn’t going to die like his mom had. No matter how tenuous the tightrope felt, that was a relief.

He wiped at his eyes when his dad pulled back.

“You okay?”

Stiles nodded. “Yeah. Just a lot to take in.” He chuckled. “Apparently I was saved from two deaths at once.”

_And so, even in death, I win._

His dad was smiling. He’d teared up too, but Stiles had never seen him look so relieved. God, how afraid had he been about this? There was a special kind of agony in learning that you’d inherited the disease that killed your parent, but there was another kind of agony that came from learning that you would most likely lose your child the same way you’d lost your spouse. Stiles had no idea which one was worse, and he honestly didn’t want to think about it. They’d won this round.

Stiles hugged his dad again.

 _No,_ he silently told the dead fox. _No, you don’t win, not this time. This time_ I _win._

He wouldn’t let himself think otherwise.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I try to keep the tags updated to warn of things that will happen, so that no one starts reading and following and gets an unpleasant surprise later when they realize that one of their triggers shows up. So those tags cover as far as I have planned for the story, which is why I'm adding them now rather than waiting until they show up.

Stiles glared at the wheelchair like it had done him a personal offense. “Like Hell,” he announced.

John sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. He let Melissa handle the talking.

“Hospital policy, Stiles,” she said.

Stiles folded his arms over his chest. “Like. Hell,” he repeated.

Melissa shrugged. “Okay then.”

John raised an eyebrow, but she wasn’t done. “In that case,” she said, “I’ll be keeping your shoes and socks until you’re outside. And if anyone sees you walking around barefoot, you’ll have to deal with another battery of tests to be sure you didn’t catch anything.”

“You’re making that up,” Stiles said.

Melissa raised her eyebrows at him, perfectly calm. “How much are you willing to bet on that?”

John bit his lips to hide a smile.

And that was how Stiles ended up letting Melissa wheel him out of the hospital. His slipper-shoes were still on his feet, but Melissa kept her promise and withheld his shoes and socks, even after he’d gotten dressed in his own clothes, until they reached the front entrance.

Stiles didn’t let them see how annoyed he was with the situation. He wasn’t even sure _why_ he was so annoyed, anyway. He was going home, the nogitsune was dead, and he was alone in his own head again. Melissa was just doing her job as both a nurse and a surrogate mother. That didn’t merit rage fizzing inside him like he was a shaken-up Coke waiting to open and unleash hell.

The car ride helped, a bit. His dad didn’t talk much—car rides with the Stilinskis had always been a fairly quiet deal. And today at least, the movement of the car calmed the rage inside him a bit.

He tried not to connect this with the nogitsune’s last words, but it was hard. It would make more sense for them to be connected—Occam’s Razor and all that. Stiles was ruthless, sure—if he needed to get to point D from point A he’d bulldoze right over B and C no matter what they were. That was textbook ruthlessness. But he wasn’t _angry,_ not like this.

But if it _was_ the nogitsune… Just the thought made the rage flare up again. He _needed_ this to be just a matter of having been in the hospital for a few days and being still sleep-deprived and annoyed and impatient. It _had_ to be that. If it was some taint the nogitsune had left, he didn’t know what he’d do.

The car stopped in front of their house and his dad climbed out. “Scott’s here already,” he said, not that Stiles hadn’t already noticed. “And, um. The rest of the… pack.”

Stiles _hadn’t_ noticed that. Scott was sitting on the front porch in the swing, his motorcycle standing right in front of the Stilinskis’ car; but his was the only vehicle visible. Stiles got out of the car and walked around until he could see the driveway they never used. Sure enough, there was Lydia’s car. No one was in it; they must be inside. Yet another thing that shouldn’t add to the rage fizzing under his skin but somehow did.

Stiles climbed up the stairs to the porch. Scott was grinning when he saw him, but it faded after a minute. “You okay?” he asked. “They said it was all… I mean your dad said you were healthy.”

Stiles wanted to punch him for that, for the moronic question and for looking at him like he was _broken_. His fist balled up without him choosing to do it. With an effort of will, he scrubbed it across his eyes rather than slam it into Scott’s face. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he lied. “Just still really tired. One good night’s sleep doesn’t make up for weeks of bad ones, or whatever.” He shrugged.

Scott offered a smile, but it didn’t look as solid as his smiles normally did. “Yeah, I guess not. Still. It’s good to have you back, man.”

He hugged Stiles. Stiles, after a moment, hugged him back. This felt normal. Less invasive, less irritating. Less like sandpaper scratching across his nerves.

“Come on,” Scott said. “Everyone wants to make sure you’re in one piece.”

Stiles barely held back a snort, but he followed Scott into the house.

‘Everyone’ indeed. The entire pack was there, including Kira and the twins. Stiles hadn’t realized they were part of the pack at all.

Lydia was the first to stand. There was a small, tentative smile on her face as she embraced Stiles. “I’m glad you’re back,” she whispered.

She stepped back, and suddenly Stiles found himself surrounded by the pack, all of whom—twins excluded—hugged him and said how glad they were to have him back. Even Kira. For some reason, that made the rage flare up again. The whole thing was irritating—did they _all_ have to hug him?—but it was worse when Kira did it. She hadn’t even _known_ him before all this happened. She’d met him while he was suffering the Bardo and for most of the time they’d known each other he’d been possessed by a fox her mother had sworn to destroy. Why should _she_ be glad to have him back?

He stepped back from the crush of people when he could, instead colliding with his dad, who wrapped an arm around his shoulders. That was… less irritating, but Stiles could still feel the buzz of rage growing under his skin. He was so, so _angry._

His dad was talking to Scott. Stiles forced himself to tune in. “—thought we said just a few of them at first,” he said.

Scott shrugged. “They all wanted to come,” he said.

“Twins included?” Stiles asked. His voice came out harsh. He looked at the betas in question. “Did you two really want to come, or did you just want to make sure I’m not going to try to kill anyone again?”

“Stiles,” Scott said. “They wanted to come.”

Stiles sucked in a breath to say something else, but let it out in a rush instead. _There’s no reason to be angry,_ he told himself.

Predictably, it didn’t help.

“We can go now, though,” Allison said. “We just wanted to be sure you’re okay.” She looked at him more closely. “You are, aren’t you?”

An angry retort was on the tip of his tongue. He forced himself to turn it into a joke. “For a certain value of ‘okay’ that involves people dead and in the hospital and me not having slept well in a month, sure I am.”

Allison grimaced and nodded. “Yeah, so that was a dumb question. We’ll go, then. You should sleep.” She gave him another hug on the way out.

The rest of the pack—Isaac, Kira, and the twins—followed her without offering further contact. Lydia hung back a minute. “I brought you your things from school,” she said. “Scott gave me the combination to your locker, hope you don’t mind. And I’ll help you keep up, okay?”

Stiles looked at her blankly. She cleared her throat a bit awkwardly and left.

“Help me keep up?” Stiles asked, looking at Scott and his dad—the only two people still there.

His dad looked even more awkward than Allison and Lydia had a minute earlier. “Stiles, we talked about this, before the MRI.”

It clicked. “You put me on medical leave?” Stiles asked. His voice was a croak.

“Stiles, it’s just for the term.”

“I’m not sick! I’m fine!”

“Stiles.” His dad put his hands on Stiles’ shoulders. Stiles tried not to hate the contact. “You were diagnosed with dementia,” his dad explained, “and then you went missing for three days. We thought you were in a fugue state, didn’t know when or even if you’d come back. We talked about it before the MRI. The papers were in before we even knew what was really happening. You’re out of school for the term.”

That was all it took. The anger that had been building up under Stiles’ skin rose into his throat, choking him. He was going to hit someone, and that wasn’t good for anyone.

“I need to use the bathroom,” he announced, just because it was the first excuse that came to mind, and walked from the room as quickly as he could without running.

He went into the bathroom beside his room, locked the door, grabbed a folded towel from the cupboard, and screamed into it.

There was no reason to be angry. None at all. He knew that. But he _was,_ he was so angry, and screaming only made a dent in it, didn’t make it go away entirely.

He wanted to punch the wall, throw something, _break_ something.

He compromised. He grabbed the bar of soap from the shower and flung it down into the tub. He could pretend it fell; soap did that, and dented and deformed on its own when it did. He punched the towel he’d screamed into.

Still angry.

_Need to break something._

He didn’t _want_ to. He didn’t want to break anything, didn’t want to punch something that would give more under his fist. He needed to. He didn’t want to.

He grabbed the edges of the sink, staring down at it and trying to force the rage to dissipate.

Someone knocked on the door. “Stiles?” his dad called. “You okay?”

“I’m fine!” Stiles called back. “I just slipped!”

“Okay.” His dad sounded hesitant, but Stiles heard his footsteps walking away, so he’d count that as a win.

He turned on the cold water on full blast, splashed some on his face, and looked up into the mirror. The face staring back at him… it was his, but it wasn’t. The expression was wrong, alien. It was familiar, though, horribly so. The face in the mirror was the face of his shadow—of the nogitsune.

Stiles splashed more water on his face.

 _I’m not that,_ he thought. He channeled the rage into that thought, directing it toward the nogitsune for doing this to him. _I’m Stiles Stilinski, I’m_ human. _The nogitsune is gone. It’s dead, and I’m still here._ It took several minutes of this to make the rage fizzle out, but it did in the end.

Stiles looked in the mirror again. This time the face staring back at him was all his.

 _You won’t win,_ he swore to the dead fox. _I will._


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a reminder that this is not compliant with anything beyond "Letharia Vulpina." As in anything. I have most of this outlined by now and I don't think I used a single thing that came after that episode.
> 
> Also, enter Parrish!

Medical leave, Stiles decided quickly, was the single worst idea his dad had ever had, _ever._ He wasn’t even sure why he’d thought it was a good idea when he’d been sick. He—and his father, for that matter—had apparently forgotten one crucial fact.

Stiles thought. _Constantly._ He thought about useful things and useless things and downright harmful things. He thought about what the nogitsune had done with his body and what it might have gone on to do and what it had tried and failed to do. And thanks to being on medical leave until the end of the term, he had nothing to do _but_ think. Sure, he was supposed to keep up with his schoolwork, but that was a lot harder to focus on when he wasn’t going to get detention if he didn’t do it. Lydia’s disapproving glares just didn’t cut it, when he’d spent years pointedly ignoring Harris’s sadism.

His dad had wanted to take some time off so they could catch up, but this being Beacon Hills, another case came up at two in the morning the day Stiles came home. His dad called Scott to stay with him while he was out.

And even though Stiles didn’t actually trust himself alone overnight, it made him angry to know that his dad and Scott felt the same.

And that was the biggest problem— _everything_ made him angry, suddenly, and his anger came with increasingly sadistic and creatively violent impulses. So far he’d managed to talk himself out of acting on any of those impulses, but it was getting to be a nearer and nearer thing. And the anger wasn’t even the worst of it.

It had taken longer for this part to show up, and longer for him to notice it; but it was all the more terrifying for all that when he realized what was happening.

The first time, he’d been making coffee for his dad, who’d had a late shift the night before and had another to get to in a few hours. He’d been staring at the coffee pot, still half-asleep himself, and had thought— _what if I put in decaf?_

A harmless enough prank, except that his dad was working frantically on whatever case had come up and he’d barely gotten any sleep and all Stiles could think of once he thought those words was his dad crashing because he couldn’t see straight from sleep deprivation. He’d reached for the regular coffee before he could go too far down that train of thought, and put it down to his own exhaustion.

But it happened again—Stiles was changing a flat on his Jeep and out of nowhere thought of putting ping-pong balls in his dad’s gas tank to screw it up. He shook his head and once again forced his mind down a different train of thought.

By the third time, he’d started hanging out at the sheriff’s station during the school day, since his friends were all in school and he hated being home alone. Besides, at the station there were people who could help him with homework when he could actually focus well enough to do it. So the third time it happened, two weeks after the nogitsune’s death and the beginning of his medical leave, Stiles was at the sheriff’s station staring at his dad’s office door.

His dad was off on this case again, and Stiles was contemplating how to find out what was going on. He thought of sneaking into his dad’s office—and then he thought of sneaking in, unscrewing the doorknob on the inside, and sneaking out through the window, leaving the entire place locked and the doorknob unable to be reattached without going in the same way. He could even jam the window, he mused. Teach them to keep secrets from him.

“You okay there?”

Stiles jumped and spun around. Deputy Parrish was behind him, raising an eyebrow and holding two cups of coffee. He held one out to Stiles. “You looked tense,” he said. “You okay?”

Stiles looked at the coffee, trying to kick his brain back into gear. His brain was stumbling over what had happened, trying to untangle why he’d thought about vandalizing his dad’s office. It wasn’t anger… it was… he’d been _happy_ at the thought.

“If you don’t want it, I’ll have both,” Parrish said.

“No, I want it.” Stiles reached out, realizing only as he took the cup that his hands were shaking.

Parrish had been person he’d ended up talking to the most. As the junior deputy, he most often got stuck manning the phones while the rest of the department went out to deal with _whatever_ the case was. He helped Stiles with homework, mostly. And sometimes, like now, he brought coffee.

Stiles took the chair beside Parrish’s desk and stared at the coffee mug. He set it down on the desk, hands still shaking. He had no idea what was going on—or rather, he had ideas and they all sucked and he didn’t want any of them to be true.

“You okay?” Parrish asked.

Stiles offered him a crooked smile. “I think medical leave was the worst idea I’ve ever had in my life, but more or less, yeah.”

Parrish snorted. “Yeah, I can understand that. It always seems like a good idea up until you’ve already started the leave and then it sucks.”

“You’ve been on leave?” Stiles asked.

“A few times, when I was a kid. Used to get sick a lot.” Parrish nodded to the coffee. “You going to drink that?”

Stiles nodded, picked up the coffee, and took a sip. It tasted like it had about half a cup of sugar in it. Perfect. He glanced at Parrish, wondering how he’d guessed that.

The deputy grinned. “I asked your dad,” he admitted. “So, you want to talk about why you’re so tense lately? It’s not just the medical leave, is it?”

For a minute, Stiles seriously considered telling him everything. About werewolves and nogitsune and kitsune and who had bombed the sheriff’s station and why—

But he didn’t.

He shook his head instead and took a big sip of coffee. Parrish didn’t need to know all that. Stiles hoped he never had to find out.

He looked back over his shoulder at his dad’s office and turned back to Parrish. “I don’t suppose you’d tell me what’s going on?”

Parrish snorted. “You suppose correctly. I know you’re used to getting involved in things you’re not supposed to—” and wasn’t that an understatement “—but not this time.”

Stiles sighed, trying without success not to let the anger fizz up inside him. He glared at his backpack, sitting on the floor beside him. “I hate homework,” he announced.

Parrish didn’t look up from the paperwork he was filling out. “I don’t think there’s a teenager on the planet who doesn’t. Do it anyway. Unless you want your leave extended.”

Parrish, Stiles decided as he dragged his books out of his backpack and set up shop on the edge of the desk the deputy now kept clear for him, was way too sensible. Stiles couldn’t even get angry at him for this. It was too practical, and Stiles appreciated practicality.

He set to working on his econ homework, sneaking glances at Parrish every so often. The man was working on his paperwork again, not looking at Stiles.

Stiles tried to focus on his homework, but within five minutes he was fidgeting and looking around the room, calculating ways to break into his dad’s office and steal the files on this case.

Parrish sighed and set down his own paperwork. “Need help?” he asked. “I could use a break from this.”

Stiles nodded.

Parrish moved his chair so he could see the book too. “What’s the problem?” he asked.

Stiles focused on the page, working through the information with Parrish’s help. Slowly, without him even noticing, the anger that had been building drained away.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey look, two chapters in two days!
> 
> The physics problem mentioned in the chapter came from physicsclassroom.com. Also, the total of what I know about motorcycle maintenance came from Google and watching Scott vandalize the twins' bikes, so if it's tremendously wrong tell me.
> 
> Also, I forgot, there is one thing I'm using from after Letharia Vulpina. Just one. Maybe two at the most.

_6\. A pack of three Artic wolves are fighting over the carcass of a dead polar bear. A top view of the magnitude and direction of the three forces is shown in the diagram to the right._

_**a.** _ _Determine the resultant or net force acting upon the carcass.  
_ **_b._ ** _Determine the acceleration of the 750-kg polar bear carcass._

Stiles stared at the question.

He’d been doing similar calculations all day in his effort to catch up on physics; the problem wasn’t the difficulty of the question, which at this point was pretty low. The problem was… was…

He didn’t know what the problem was. He just kept _staring_ because there was something important about the question, and it wasn’t that it was about wolves.  Something… something…

“Something wrong?”

Stiles jumped a foot in the air and turned to glare at Parrish, who once again had come up behind him without him noticing. “How do you _do_ that?” he snapped.

“Easy. I’m quiet and you’re focused, for once.” Parrish shot him a grin and sat down at his desk, handing Stiles a coffee and muffin. He had one of his own as well, probably snagged from the break room like everything else he brought over here.

Stiles started breaking the muffin apart with his fingers, not eating it just yet.

“So, what’s the problem?” Parrish asked.

Stiles tensed before he realized the man was just asking about the physics homework. He shook his head. “The question is easy. It just reminded me of something and I can’t figure out what.”

Honesty, he’d found, was easier if it was with someone who didn’t know the right questions to ask. His dad or Scott would have known to ask about the nogitsune, if he was having aftereffects from that, if he’d remembered anything the nogitsune had done, if he wanted to let Deaton run a few tests… which he absolutely, positively did _not._ But with Parrish, Stiles could pick and choose what to say, because the deputy didn’t know what direction to push. It made it safer, and that made it easier.

“My mom always liked to say if you can’t remember it, it wasn’t important.” Parrish looked at the problem over Stiles’ shoulder. “How many more of those do you have to do?”

Stiles groaned. “Five more this section. Then I’m still a section behind.”

Parrish’s mouth twitched like he was hiding a smile. Stiles glared at him, but it didn’t have any heat behind it.

“Would it help to switch to something else for a while?” Parrish asked.

Stiles shook his head, rubbing at his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Everything else I’m this far behind on is reading crap, and that’s too hard to focus on.”

Parrish snorted. “So work on the physics homework,” he said. “Or read a few pages of something and then do a physics problem. Alternate the harder ones with the easier ones and then you don’t have to deal with the hard ones all at once.”

Christ, why was Parrish so sensible? And why did that sensible way of tackling problems disarm the anger Stiles always felt otherwise?

He sighed, popping a bite of muffin into his mouth and reaching for the history book in his backpack. “It’s just so _boring,_ ” he said. He knew he was whining but he didn’t care. At least when Mr. Yukimura talked he managed to make it sound interesting. The book even made battles about as interesting as a topography map of Kansas.

“It’s not going to be any less boring if you put it off,” was the response. Parrish was looking at his paperwork again but Stiles could see the twitch of his mouth. He felt like he should be irritated, but Parrish was too calm and friendly about his amusement. Stiles was coming to rely on that calm to keep him grounded.

Come to think of it, hadn’t Parrish been in some kind of bomb squad? He’d dealt with more volatile things than Stiles.

Stiles thought of his idea from that morning to put pins in his dad’s bed, just to mess with the sheriff and by extension his department. _Probably,_ he amended his previous thought. Parrish had _probably_ dealt with more volatile things than Stiles.

He sighed again and glared at his book. He could see the words, could read the words; but as soon as he finished a sentence he completely forgot what that sentence had said. There was no way he was going to get through this and three more chapters before Hell froze over, let alone before the semester ended and he went back to school.

He grabbed a highlighter from his bag, less to actually use it and more so he could have something to do with his hands and hopefully focus better. “What time is it?” he asked, just to delay work a few more seconds.

“It is… four-thirty,” Parrish said.

Four-thirty. His classmates were out of school by now. Stiles started his days late; he needed every second of sleep he could get at this point and so refused to set an alarm. Still, he’d been at his homework on and off for six hours now. No wonder he was bored.

“I need a break,” he announced, and stood up—just in time to see Scott go into his dad’s office.

Blood roared in his ears. Stiles wasn’t a werewolf, didn’t have supernatural senses; but it wasn’t hard to tell what they were talking about when his dad had closed the door and both of them were positioned like they were, away from the windows and toward each other. Their posture couldn’t have screamed “secret meeting” any louder if there’d been a neon sign attached.

Stiles hadn’t been so angry since the first day he’d come home. He realized his hands were in fists only because his nails were digging into his palms to the point of pain. He was physically dizzy from anger.

He heard Parrish saying something behind him, but not even Parrish could talk him down from this. “I’m going for a walk,” he said, his voice too calm, and left.

He didn’t know what he intended to do until he saw Scott’s bike sitting in the parking lot. He’d been home for weeks and hadn’t acted on his anger in any serious way—but right now he wanted to, and he couldn’t think of a single good reason not to.

Scott knew. And if Scott knew, then Derek and the whole pack probably knew, because Scott would need their help to figure it out. And Scott and his dad were talking behind his back, talking about something that almost definitely involved Stiles. They hadn’t said anything to him—even Parrish wouldn’t say anything to him—but everyone knew. He was the only one locked out of the loop.

He stalked over to Scott’s bike. Why wouldn’t they tell him? He’d been the nogitsune’s host—somewhere in his head the rest of its plans had to be here. _If it was the nogitsune causing it,_ the sensible part of his mind said, but it was a whisper against the shout of his anger.

Stiles crouched beside Scott’s bike. He knew the basic schematics for this, but all he had was his hands and the knife and coins in his pocket. It would be enough, he thought. He just needed to make sure no one noticed, but since most of the department was out on this case and there were cards shielding him from easy view, that was easy enough.

Using the knife as a screwdriver and more strength than he’d thought he had, he got into the bike to the spark plugs and pulled them out. Then he grabbed another part, just for good measure.

He felt a fierce rush of joy. His nails were ragged, his hands were filthy, and it was all worth it because Scott’s bike wouldn’t run. The thing he’d worked so hard for all summer while he didn’t worry about the Alpha pack and tried not to broadcast how much he missed Allison—

The thing his best friend had worked for.

Stiles looked at the things in his hands, suddenly feeling sick. What the hell was he _doing?_ This was his best friend’s bike. He’d just vandalized _his best friend’s bike._

He dropped the parts. He had no idea how to put them back, so he couldn’t fix what he’d broken, but Scott could. He’d know how. Stiles shoved the knife back in his pocket and wiped his hands the best he could on the inside of his shirt.

Shaking from shame and fear, Stiles turned back to the station and walked back up the steps. He should tell Scott what had happened, but—but Scott would worry. Deaton would get involved. His dad would know, would know there was something of the nogitsune still left, and he’d be afraid and he’d be sad and—

Stiles forced his feet up the steps and into the bullpen. He looked at his dad’s office, where he and Scott were still talking. Stiles took a breath and walked back to Parrish’s desk, sitting down at the corner he used.

“How was your walk?” Parrish asked.

Stiles shrugged, trying not to flinch at the question. “Fine.”

He turned back to his homework.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three updates in three days, I'M ON A ROLL. Don't get used to it, though. I have a three-day weekend every week and this fic has been eating me so I haven't been working on anything else, but I won't be able to write as much during the week.
> 
> Reminder that this is not canon with anything beyond Letharia Vulpina. I think I have kept one development from beyond that episode.

He’d finally finished reading chapter five of his history book. _Finally._ It had taken him a full three days to get through it, reading every time he could bribe, blackmail, or force himself into focusing. And now once again he found himself staring for no reason. This time he could at least pinpoint _what_ had captured his attention, even if it didn’t make any sense.

_Chapter six: The Road to Vietnam._

_Chapter six._

It had been problem number six that had caught his attention in the physics book, too. The number six was _important_ somehow, but he had no idea why. It was almost as frustrating as trying to focus on the reading itself.

Stiles stretched, looking around the bullpen. Parrish was off taking a statement from someone or other. Apparently being the junior deputy had its perks. Since he was one of the only people who wasn’t off handling the case-that-Stiles-shall-not-know-about, he ended up doing all the interesting things with whatever other cases came through. Aside from an administrative assistant, the rest of the department was out on patrol or investigating whatever the case was.

Maybe if he went for a walk he could focus better on reading, Stiles thought, and stood up and headed toward the entryway.

He stopped when he saw Parrish talking to a young woman. He didn’t know her, but it was like the number six. Something about her was important.

He stared, willing himself to figure out what was going on in his head; but predictably, it didn’t work. The thought stayed stubbornly out of reach. It irritated him, a gentler irritation than what he’d been dealing with lately but irritating nonetheless.

He let out a sigh that sounded more like a growl as he turned to go for that walk.

He stepped out into the fresh air and sucked in a deep, appreciative breath. The station never had any open windows unless it was the middle of summer, and it took a toll.

Stiles looked around the parking lot, his eyes landing briefly on the spot where he’d vandalized Scott’s bike a few days before. He forced himself to look away; nothing would be gained by dwelling on that. Scott had been able to fix the bike without too much trouble, and had elected not to press charges, so the case had been dropped. Stiles was glad for that; if Scott had wanted to press charges, the spark plugs would have been dusted for prints, and then he would have been in _serious_ trouble.

He headed for the road beyond the sheriff’s station, planning to walk around the block, when his phone buzzed. He pulled it out and read a text from Lydia. _Can’t do catchup session today. See you tomorrow._

Stiles shoved his phone back in his pocket. Anger was rising again, bubbling just under his skin and growing stronger and stronger until he was surprised his skin wasn’t actually rippling from it.

Lydia knew. Lydia who could barely control her powers on the best of days was in the loop but Stiles who probably had the key to the whole case locked up somewhere in his brain wasn’t.

He seriously considered throwing his phone across the parking lot, but he wasn’t sure his dad would replace it with a non-crappy phone, so he didn’t. Instead he grabbed a rock from the ground and hurled it across the parking lot, aiming (successfully for once) at an empty spot so he wouldn’t have to add another instance of vandalism to his growing list of poor choices.

And the list was growing fast. In the last week he’d gone from one impulse followed to five. Besides vandalizing Scott’s bike, he’d broken the handle on the back door of the house so it wouldn’t unlock, talked his dad into another drink or three to try to get him to open up about the case (it didn’t work, which surprised Stiles), and topped it off by puncturing the spare tire in his dad’s civilian car. Things were getting worse, fast. He was out of control, out of his own control, and he had no idea how to fix it.

“So, should I skip the asking if you’re okay and ask what’s going on?”

Stiles whirled to face Parrish, who _once again_ had snuck up behind him. And today that only made him angrier.

“Why are you doing that?” It came out as a snarl.

Parrish raised his eyebrows, expression unafraid; but Stiles didn’t miss the way his stance widened just a hair, readying for a fight. He couldn’t stop the rush of savage pleasure at the gesture. The deputy was afraid. _Good._

“I’m worried about you,” he said evenly. Then, “You’ve been cooped up in the station too long. I’m going to get some coffee that _hasn’t_ been burnt and left to go stale. Want to come?”

Stiles blinked at the sudden change in topic; it was unexpected enough that some of his anger ebbed away. “Uh…” He couldn’t deny that coffee sounded good. “Yeah, sure.”

“Great. It’s just a couple blocks; you mind walking?”

Stiles shook his head, wondering where this was going. Parrish didn’t actually want to just buy coffee, no way. Not when he’d just seen Stiles hurl a rock into a parking lot full of cars a week after Scott’s bike was sabotaged in the same lot.

Parrish, though, didn’t talk on the way to the coffee shop. The sidewalks were empty, and Parrish was calm and steady at Stiles’ side. Slowly his anger faded.

Finally they reached the coffee shop, and Parrish let Stiles order first. Stiles got a massive coffee with two shots of espresso and dumped a dozen sugar packets in it. Parrish got a smaller coffee, adding cream and substantially less sugar.

“So,” Parrish said conversationally, waving Stiles over to a table by the window, “you want to tell me what’s going on?”

Stiles knew it was coming, but it was still nerve-wracking to think that he had to explain this. He toyed with his stirring stick, staring at his coffee.

“And don’t say it’s just medical leave,” Parrish said. “I don’t know exactly why you’re on leave, but I do know that this kind of stress isn’t just from not having anything to do. You threw a rock into the parking lot,” he said, ticking off points on his fingers. “You’re constantly tense, and don’t think I don’t notice you’re always angry—I think you have permanent grooves in your hands from clenching your fists all the time. Your dad says you’re still not sleeping well. You came in with oil and dirt on your hands the day you went for your ‘walk’ and Scott’s bike was vandalized at the same time.”

Stiles jerked, staring at him.

Parrish raised his eyebrows. “Did you think I didn’t notice? I’ve been watching you get more and more stressed out for weeks now, Stiles. I thought, if you needed help you’d ask for it, but you’re obviously not going to. And I know whatever reason you’re on medical leave is partly psychiatric, and the vandalism was dropped anyway, so I kept an eye on you and didn’t say anything about it. But now…” He shook his head. “This isn’t going away, and you need help. And you’re obviously trying to keep your friends and your dad from noticing, which just leaves me, because you don’t bother to hide it from me like you do from them. But you have to talk to _someone_ , because this? This is getting out of control. So if you won’t talk to anyone else, talk to me.”

Stiles opened his mouth to say something, to deflect or lie outright. Then he closed it again. He cleared his throat and said, “I was possessed.”

Parrish raised his eyebrows again in a ‘go on’ gesture, taking a sip of his coffee.

So Stiles kept going. “It was a nogitsune—basically a demonic trickster fox spirit. See a few months ago there were these serial murders, right. Well they were sacrifices, and the last sacrifices were going to be our parents—my dad and Scott’s mom and Allison’s dad. So instead, we died temporarily to be surrogate sacrifices, only that opened this door in our heads, and then the nogitsune came in through that door into my head and possessed me. And it killed people, and tried to kill more people, but Deaton—the vet, he’s a druid—poisoned it, and it died, but while it was dying it cured my dementia—which is why I was on medical leave, frontotemporal dementia, same thing my mom died from—and in the process apparently it left something behind because now I get pissed off and I want to hurt people _all the time._ Even when I’m not pissed off I want to hurt people just to see them get hurt, and it scares the hell out of me and I can’t _stop_ it.”

Silence greeted that flood of words. Stiles glared at his coffee, trying not to be irritated with himself for admitting all this or with Parrish for asking and then not responding.

“Sounds like you have plenty of reason to be stressed,” Parrish said.

Stiles let out a breath. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

More silence. Stiles glanced at Parrish from under his eyebrows. The deputy seemed to be thinking over what to say.

“I believe,” Parrish said slowly, “that something happened to you, that maybe can’t be explained. I believe that frontotemporal dementia—any dementia, for that matter—has no cure. I believe that if yours was cured, and I trust you when you say it was, then that can’t be explained. I believe that there’s something about you that’s different from before, and I believe that it’s pushing you to do things you don’t want to do. And I believe that there are a lot of cases in Beacon Hills that are weird, that get shoved aside and marked as cold cases because there’s no logical explanation for what happened. I don’t know how much of the demonic trickster fox spirit thing I believe, but I’m not discounting it out of hand.”

Stiles looked at his coffee. He wasn’t sure whether he was glad or worried to hear that response. He fiddled with the stirring stick some more.

“So did the sacrifice thing trigger the dementia too?”

Stiles shrugged. “Honestly, I have no idea what did that. I was always at a genetic risk for it, could just be that. But I doubt dying helped.” He snorted.

“Probably not,” Parrish agreed. “So, anything else I should know about?”

Stiles studied the deputy for a long moment, trying to figure out if he was teasing Stiles. On the contrary, there was a thoughtful crease between Parrish’s brows like he was piecing things together.

So he started talking. He explained everything, starting with Scott being bitten and not stopping until he reached the reason he’d thrown that rock. He wondered if he was making Parrish late getting back to the station, but since the man hadn’t said anything he didn’t worry about it.

“Wow,” Parrish said when he was done. “That really is a lot to take in.”

“You don’t believe me,” Stiles said again.

“I believe that the gist of it is true, even if I’m not convinced on all the details. I definitely believe you need help managing this.”

Stiles sighed, slumping down in his chair. “Yeah,” he said softly. “I just—I don’t know how.”

“We’ll figure something out.”

Stiles looked up at Parrish. “‘We’?” he asked. He tried to hold back the hope. He was still waiting for the other shoe to drop—the one where Parrish would call him a monster, lock him up, send him to a psychiatric ward.

Parrish nodded. “Apparently you don’t trust anyone else,” he said. “Unless you’d rather tell your dad, or Scott?”

Stiles shook his head, still wary. “So… how do we manage it?”

“We’ll figure it out,” Parrish repeated. “You have to know something about how to control it, or things would be a lot worse by now.”

Stiles shrugged. “Not really,” he admitted. “I could before, but it’s been getting worse. Mostly… mostly I just try to distract myself.” He took another sip of coffee. “Which doesn’t always work. I didn’t even think about what I was doing to Scott’s bike until I was already done.”

“And then how did you feel?”

“Like shit,” Stiles admitted. “I broke my best friend’s bike.”

“So think about that,” Parrish said. “Think about what the consequences will be, derail the thoughts before you act on them.”

Stiles scratched at his neck. “I mean… I try.” It was true. He tried to remember his dad’s reaction, Scott’s reaction, the pain he’d be putting them through. But it didn’t always work, and then he was left with guilt and regret and trying desperately to fix things he had no idea how to fix.

“You help,” he said, looking at his coffee and fiddling with the stirring stick again. “Just… you. You’re calm. I don’t know, it helps. I’m not as angry when you’re around.”

Parrish nodded slowly. “Okay,” he said. “Here’s what we’re going to do. You’re going to tell me whenever you have one of these urges, before you act on them, and I’m going to try to help you derail them. If you don’t tell me beforehand, you’re going to tell me when it happens so I know. You tell me what works and what doesn’t and we’ll figure out a way to manage these things. Okay?”

Stiles frowned. “That easy?” he said. “I mean—you’re just going to help?”

Parrish nodded. “Yeah, I am. I don’t want to see you or anyone else get hurt over this, Stiles. I don’t think for a second that jail or a mental hospital would help you with this, and I know you won’t tell anyone else. I know you’re a good person, and I know this is tearing you up. And honestly,” he smiled again, “being the junior deputy with no knowledge of the supernatural as I am, this is the best way to really help this town that I’ve had yet.”

Stiles snorted. “Thanks,” he muttered.

“Thank me when it works.” Parrish stood up. “Now, we need to head back to the station. My lunch break’s over.”

Stiles nodded and stood up too. It was stupid to hope—hope hadn’t helped him since the first nightmare after the sacrifices—but he actually thought this might work.


	7. Chapter 7

The scene was horribly familiar. And by ‘familiar’ Stiles meant that he was pretty sure this had happened before, in real life, and had been buried in his head when the nogitsune died.

He was soaking wet from the storm outside. In front of him, Scott was collapsed against the table, a sword sticking out of his gut.

Stiles drummed his fingers along the hilt of the sword, meeting Scott’s eyes. “Okay?” he asked.

“Please don’t,” Scott begged, and the sound was like a drug.

~

Stiles woke up screaming.

A few weeks ago, there would have been someone there; but he’d been mostly okay, and there was the new case, so he was alone. He flailed at the sheets, which like had happened almost every night he could remember were tangled around him. In the process of kicking them off, he fell off the bed, banging his head against the nightstand on the way down.

“Ow,” he groaned.

Or rather, that was what he meant to say. What actually came out was a garbled sound that he could only barely identify as “Five.”

And wasn’t that just creepy and ominous and totally one hundred percent _unhelpful._

Stiles finally freed himself from his sheets and struggled to his feet, one hand on the back of his head. He looked at the clock.

6:17.

He sighed. His dad was at work, probably—Parrish said he was sleeping in the break room instead of going home. Parrish would be at work soon—he worked just about every daylight hour. Stiles’ friends probably weren’t even awake yet, except maybe Scott.

Stiles scrubbed at his eyes. He thought about going back to bed, but he honestly couldn’t imagine sleeping any more. He was dead tired, though. Coffee and an early arrival at the station it was.

It wasn’t until the coffee pot was half-full that Stiles thought about telling Parrish. Parrish had given him his phone number, but if he was asleep Stiles didn’t want to wake him up.

_You’re going to tell me._

Stiles shook his head to clear it. He’d promised to tell Parrish when he had the urge to hurt someone, and this wasn’t that. Parrish could sleep a little longer. Stiles didn’t need to wake him up because he had a bad dream.

He tossed a couple Pop-Tarts in the toaster while he waited for the coffee to finish brewing. He was still tired, still wanted to sleep more—but if he went to sleep he wasn’t at all sure he wouldn’t have an even worse dream. He could still hear Scott begging him to stop, still feel the hilt of the sword in his hand, the resistance in Scott’s skin when he twisted the sword in the already-healing wound, the caffeine-like rush of Scott’s pain flooding into him, the _hunger…_

Maybe he _should_ call Parrish.

He glared at the coffee, willing it to hurry up and finish brewing. He definitely needed at _least_ two cups today. It had taken him long enough to get to sleep in the first place and no way in hell was he going back now.

If he’d been more aware in the dream, he would have counted his fingers. Now that he was awake, though, he was glad he didn’t. Maybe because it was a memory and not a dream it would look real—maybe he would have had ten fingers, been able to read, tell time, look in mirrors…

He couldn’t help counting his fingers now, though, and breathing a sigh of relief when he realized there were ten, no more and no less.  This was real.

The toaster popped and, at almost the same time, the coffee finished. Stiles grabbed the Pop-Tarts, poured a cup of coffee, and sat down at the kitchen table with his economics book beside him.

After half an hour, the sun was coming up, Stiles had eaten a whole box of Pop-Tarts and drank the entire pot of coffee, and he hadn’t managed to understand even a paragraph of the book. His intention of not telling Parrish immediately wasn’t working out so well; he couldn’t stop thinking of the feeling he’d gotten when Scott had begged, when Stiles had tasted that pain..

He slammed the book shut and headed to his room to get dressed. It was still way earlier than he normally went into the station, but Parrish would be there by now. Probably, anyway. Hopefully.

He wasn’t, of course, because today was apparently the kind of day where _nothing_ went to plan. Stiles set up at the edge of Parrish’s desk where he always worked, avoiding the eyes of the deputies who were in this early and wanted to know why Stiles was up. Fortunately his dad was out on patrol; Stiles really didn’t want to explain to him.

He got out his econ book again and tried to focus on the text, but the words swam in front of his eyes and his mind wandered back to the dream. He slammed the book shut and looked around the bullpen.

If he hadn’t had an entire pot of coffee, he might have tried to sleep more; as it was, he was too wired. He sighed and got out his pre-calc book. Math was moderately easier to focus on than reading, anyway.

He twitched every time he saw a 5. He’d said that number when he hit his head and he didn’t know what it meant but he knew it meant _something._ Every time he tried to focus on math he ended up trying to figure out that mystery instead, until he gave up and put his head down to try to sleep more, no matter how much caffeine he’d had or how bad the next nightmare might be.

Fortunately, that was when Parrish arrived.

Parrish tapped him on the shoulder, and Stiles jumped so hard he almost hit Parrish in the nose with his skull. “Sorry,” he said when he settled.

“No harm done.” Parrish watched him a moment and beckoned Stiles to get up. “Come on. Taryn brought donuts today.”

Stiles nodded, standing and following Parrish. When they reached the break room, Parrish offered him coffee as well as a donut.

Stiles shook his head. “I had about a pot of it at home,” he admitted.

“That would be why you’re so wired.” Parrish nodded and poured himself a cup anyway. “You still want a donut though, right?”

Stiles nodded.

Parrish had a custard-filled donut; Stiles picked one with chocolate icing and sprinkles. He felt like he shouldn’t—he’d probably had too much sugar already—but he really didn’t care.

“So,” Parrish said when he had his coffee ready, “you want to tell me why you’re in here before me looking like death warmed over and hyped up on caffeine?”

Stiles shook his head. He didn’t bother pretending that he was surprised Parrish had asked. “Nope.”

“We have a deal, Stiles.”

“It was just a nightmare.”

Parrish leaned back against the table where the donuts were sitting. “What about?”

Stiles glared. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing,” Parrish said, in that level tone that so often broke through Stiles’ anger. “Stiles, I want to help you.”

His expression held no pity, no anger, only concern and a touch of disappointment. It made it hard to get mad at him. Stiles looked down at his donut, breaking off a piece with his fingers.

Parrish caught his wrist. “Look at me.” When Stiles did, Parrish said, “You have to let me help you, or I can’t do anything and someone will get hurt.”

Stiles looked away. He popped the bite of donut into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. Parrish waited, still holding his other wrist.

Finally Stiles said, “We were in the vet’s office. Me and Scott. Kira too, but she was unconscious, I think. Scott—there was an oni sword in his gut and I… I looked him in the eye and grabbed the hilt and he was begging me not to—and…” He swallowed.

When it became clear Stiles wouldn’t continue, Parrish asked, “You, or it?”

Stiles looked at Parrish. “What?”

“You said _you_ did this. Was it you, or was it the nogitsune?”

He looked down again. “It felt like me. It felt… it was my hand and I—I liked it.”

“Stiles.” Parrish’s voice was still level, still without a trace of anger. “Was it you, or was it the nogitsune?”

“It felt like me,” he said again.

“But was it?”

Stiles glared at the donut. He didn’t want to answer. He knew the answer Parrish wanted but he didn’t believe it himself. Silence stretched between them.

“No,” Stiles said at last.

Parrish put a hand on Stiles’ shoulder, squeezing gently. “No, it wasn’t. Because you are Stiles, and you are human.”

Stiles nodded.

“Say it. Stiles, say it.”

Stiles sighed. “I’m Stiles, and I’m human,” he said, looking at Parrish again.

Parrish nodded. “Good. And now, we’re going to revise our deal a little bit. You’re going to tell me every time something happens—a nightmare, a feeling, anything—that makes you feel less human. And every time you have one of these nightmares. Even if it’s the middle of the night and I just worked a double, I don’t care, you call me. Every time. Deal?”

Stiles nodded, but he didn’t really mean it. Parrish must have seen that, but he didn’t say anything. “You want to sleep more?” he asked instead, nodding to the couch in the break room.

Stiles shook his head. “I don’t want to wake up screaming and freak everyone out. Plus the whole coffee thing.”

Parrish nodded. “Okay. When you’re tired again, though, you tell me. I’ll bring my work in here and wake you up if you seem like you’re having a nightmare. Okay?”

He wasn’t sure if he’d be able to. He wanted to—even though it hurt, even though it made him feel weak and pathetic and broken, he wanted to be able to rely on someone. On Parrish. But he didn’t want to be broken. Didn’t want to need help.

“Okay?” Parrish asked again.

Stiles nodded. “Okay.”


End file.
